Erich sat within the confines of his command vehicle, which itself rested within the belly of the beast.

And that beast was a strategic airlift turboprop aircraft, based loosely on the P.1108/I Fernbomber.

These were the behemoths that carried German armor across the globe, and were currently flanked by FW PTL "Falke" turboprop fighter escorts.

Each had its drop tanks attached for the sake of carrying out the mission.

They were taking off from an airstrip outside Bangkok, heading east toward the Philippines, specifically the island of Luzon.

While the Royal Thai Army and the German Marine Corps prepared an amphibious landing on the more loosely defended island of Palawan.

The Fallschirm-Panzergrenadiere Brigade was tasked with deploying behind enemy lines, harassing the enemy where their staging force was strongest.

Erich looked around the cabin of his command vehicle, and there he saw each man performing his own pre-battle ritual in the silence and dread that threatened to suffocate them into stillness.

An enlisted man, younger than even Erich, held his prayer beads, reciting the Lord's Prayer as his hands trembled with fright and anticipation for the coming drop.

Another sat with his head bowed and his hands raised, begging the Lord in an ad-libbed prayer for deliverance and safety.

The third soldier sat still, smoking a cigarette; the weight of multiple deployments from multiple wars etched into the lines on his face.

His eyes were no longer capable of fear, for he had long since accepted the reality that he was already dead.

And finally, there was Erich himself.

He listened to the radio chatter in his headset… five minutes to the combat zone.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as the armored vehicle began to rattle within the cargo bay of the aircraft, rocked by flak that threatened to tear them out of the sky.

One of the younger NCOs in his vehicle looked up at his commanding officer, trepidation in his eyes.

Yet his words caught in his throat as Erich performed the sign of the cross, reciting his own ritual in an almost irreverent, detached tone:

"Blessed be the Lord, my rock,

who trains my hands for battle,

my fingers for war;

my safeguard and my fortress,

my stronghold, my deliverer,

my shield, in whom I take refuge,

who subdues peoples under me…"

The hiss of radio chatter filled his ears as the first aircraft in formation took a direct hit from a flak shell, bursting into flames as its crew and cargo were struck from the heavens.

Erich did not immediately respond. He continued the verse until…

"Sir! We've lost three planes already, and we're not even at the drop point yet! The Americans have more high-altitude guns than expected. If this keeps up, we'll lose a quarter of the brigade before we even drop!"

Erich said nothing.

His lips moved solely to the rhythm of the psalm, even as the guns thundered outside and panic began to take hold of those with weaker hearts.

He still prayed.

When the last verse escaped his lips, his eyes opened.

He gave a silent nod to the driver, and the engines roared to life.

The armored vehicle rolled off the ramp and plunged straight down into the sky below.

Erich gripped the edge of his seat for stability.

His stomach churned, as it did with every drop, especially as the shells exploded beneath the V-shaped hull of their vehicle.

Each burst was another reminder that death was watching them with voracious, longing eyes. Each second that passed felt like another step toward a miserable end.

Finally, the parachute deployed, and the vehicle came to a rough landing not long after.

When the wheels touched the ground and the men inside could breathe again, they relaxed… if only for a moment.

Erich listened to the radio chatter, checking for casualty reports. Losses were higher than projected.

The inclusion of larger-caliber flak guns in the Philippines had not been accurately assessed in scale.

In past operations, drops had been virtually uncontested due to the extreme altitudes their planes flew at.

However, much like the Liberty Tank, the Americans had made innovations in anti-air technology and were now fielding higher-velocity guns.

It was believed that most of these guns were on the home front, and spread across North Africa to prevent bombing raids.

And yet, clearly the intelligence they had been given was only partially correct.

It was the nature of warfare; one could never know every detail of the enemy's preparations.

For this, Erich could only offer a silent prayer for those who had already perished.

He stepped out into the open air, boots sinking into the soaked soil of the jungle clearing.

The humidity struck him like a wall.

All around him, the jungle hissed and crackled. Insects, engines, and distant gunfire blending into one endless hum.

His men were already disembarking, establishing a perimeter around the crash site.

One of the transports had come down too hard; it lay smoldering on its side, the parachute still tangled in the canopy above like a funeral shroud.

"Casualties?" Erich asked, his voice filtered and calm.

A sergeant jogged up, saluting with one hand while holding a blood-slick clipboard in the other.

"Five dead, sir. Two wounded. One of the APCs didn't land in the zone… we lost signal on descent. Might've gone into the marsh to the west."

Erich nodded slowly. "Get me its last known coordinates. We recover who we can. We leave no one for their propaganda reels."

The sergeant nodded and sprinted off.

Erich climbed atop his command vehicle, surveying the tree line

In the distance, tracer fire flickered like fireflies between the leaves, faint echoes of the larger war beyond the horizon.

He could already hear artillery far away, dull thuds marking the rhythm of invasion.

The Royal Thai Army would be making landfall about now on Palawan. The Reich's Marines too.

The thought gave him little comfort.

A young lieutenant approached, breathing hard under the weight of his gear.

"Sir, the other platoons are checking in. Radio confirms the drop zones are scattered. Command's asking for a sitrep."

His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, eyes darting toward the night sky still burning with wreckage.

Erich looked at the boy, no older than twenty, still carrying the look of someone who believed in survival.

He placed a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder and spoke low.

"Fear's fine, lieutenant. It's a compass. Just don't let it point you backward."

The young man swallowed hard, nodded once, and hurried off to relay orders.

Erich turned back to the jungle.

The darkness was nearly complete now, broken only by the faint glow of the moon filtering through the canopy.

Steam rose off the wet leaves. The air was thick, choking. Every breath felt borrowed.

He switched channels on his headset, linking to the rest of the battalion.

"Falke Command to all callsigns. We've made landfall. Expect sporadic contact. The objective remains the same: disrupt enemy logistics, intercept communications, and destroy supply corridors between Manila and the bay. We are not an army tonight, gentlemen. We're the shadow between their heartbeats."

Affirmations clicked back across the net, brief and professional.

He could hear the hum of other APCs, IFVs, and tanks moving through the brush, the muffled thumps of men repositioning, each sound carrying the weight of discipline honed over years.

Erich wiped sweat from his brow and gestured to his driver.

"Move us east toward the river. We'll regroup with Second Company and set up the forward staging area there."

The driver nodded.

The command vehicle lurched forward, branches scraping across its armored hull like skeletal fingers.

Behind them, the column rolled in silence, engines muffled beneath the canopy.

A few hundred meters in, they found the remnants of another drop zone: a vehicle overturned in the mud, half its crew still strapped inside, faces pale and still under the red glow of emergency lamps.

Erich ordered a brief halt.

They recovered what supplies they could and draped the bodies in ponchos.

The jungle would take them soon enough… but not unmarked.

In their current state, bringing the corpses home was an impossibility.

They could only scavenge the dog tags, and mark the location for later recovery, assuming anything was left remaining by then.

He stood a moment longer before rejoining his men. Taking one look back and sighing at the sight of the bodies that would likely never return home to the lands of their forefathers.

By the time the convoy reached the river, the air was thick with fog and the smell of rain.

It pounded against their helmets and armor, a deafening drumbeat that drowned all other sounds.

Erich stepped out once more, standing ankle-deep in water, his uniform plastered to his frame.

He looked up toward the sky, where somewhere above the clouds more aircraft still burned, their debris raining unseen into the sea.

He removed his gloves, pressed his bare palm into the wet earth, and whispered quietly,

"The hunt continues."

The words weren't loud.

But they were enough.

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